


Safe

by Glassdarkly



Series: Second Front [1]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Alternate Canon, Angst, Drama, M/M, Season/Series 07
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-05
Updated: 2013-12-05
Packaged: 2018-01-03 14:21:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1071490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glassdarkly/pseuds/Glassdarkly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After leaving Sunnydale in BtVS season 6, Giles has tried to start a new life for himself in England, but things keep happening to prevent him. First it's Willow trying to destroy the world, this time it's a very unwelcome visitor turning up on his doorstep.</p><p>The first story in the Second Front series, an alternate canon BtVS season 7. This one set just-pre-season. </p><p>This story was written for the Welcome to the Nancy Tribe ficathon on Livejournal in November 2008.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Safe

**Author's Note:**

> This story contains mention of Spike's attempted rape of Buffy in BtVS season 6.

"Open the bloody door, will you!"

Giles sat up in bed with a jerk. He'd been dreaming about explosions -buildings falling –great blocks of masonry crashing to the ground all around him – and even now he was awake, the thudding noises hadn't stopped.

Disorientated, he switched on the bedside lamp, put on his glasses and squinted at the clock – 3am, and some idiot was hammering on his front door fit to break it down, and certainly loud enough to wake the neighbours.

"Bloody hell!" 

He threw back the quilt and set his feet on the floor, searching for his slippers. As he did so, a pulse beat painfully in his temple and he gave the empty glass on his bedside table a sour look. 

Locating the wretched slippers at last – and why were they never where he'd left them? - he fumbled his feet into them, put on his dressing gown and headed for the bedroom door. Meanwhile, the sound of a very hard fist impacting against his front door continued, though – thank goodness for small mercies – the shouting had stopped.

"I'm coming, I'm coming."

He made his way along the hall, turning on lights and arming himself as he went. Old Sunnydale habits died hard.

The axe a comforting weight in his grasp, he opened the cover over the spy hole and peered out into the small lobby that separated his flat from number 2 across the way, expecting to discover some drunk who'd mistaken his front door for their own. But when he saw who was standing there, every muscle in his body seemed to clench tight as a wave of sheer, unadulterated fury washed over him, leaving him literally shaking with anger.

The evil little bastard – how dare he!

At that moment, the thudding started up again, so hard it made the door tremble in its frame. 

"Giles – you in there?"

The voice of commonsense told Giles he should turn round, go back to bed, pull the quilt over his ears and ignore the increasingly desperate pounding, but just now, the voice of commonsense could go hang itself.

Instead, he gripped the axe more tightly, unlocked the door and flung it open, so suddenly that a normal person would have gone staggering forward into the hallway.

But his unwelcome visitor wasn't a normal person – or even a person at all. Instead, Spike rebounded off the invisible barrier that kept him – and all vampires – out.

He recovered quickly.

" _There_ you are," he said. "Thought you were gonna keep me standin' here all bloody night."

"Spike." 

Giles spat the name out through clenched teeth. He raised the axe, stepped over the threshold and into the lobby.

Spike's eyes went wide. He opened his mouth to say something, then shut it again. He didn't try to run. 

Instead, he let Giles back him against the wall on the far side of the lobby, right next to the front door of number 2, and set the axe blade to his neck. 

"Like that, is it?" he said. 

Giles's hands were shaking. His heart was pounding in his chest and he felt light-headed. He stared into the vampire's blue eyes, hoping the little bastard could see his death in them.

Suddenly, Spike broke his gaze. He turned his head to the side, tilted his chin up and bared his throat.

"Do it." 

At the same time, the front door of number 2 flew open and Mrs Finch was standing there, resplendent in shocking pink dressing gown and matching curlers, two of her many cats bristling at her feet. 

"What on earth is all this racket?" she shouted. "Pipe down, or I'll call the police." 

Giles had just time to note that it appeared she wore false eyelashes and lipstick even in bed and that the odour of cats that clung to her person seemed a little muted, as he hurriedly lowered the axe and hid it behind his back. Spike, meanwhile, didn't move.

Giles cleared his throat. "Very sorry about the noise, Mrs Finch. I think this –young man is rather the worse for wear."

He grabbed Spike's arm and wrestled him away from the wall. "Go away," he said. "You don't belong here." And he pushed him hard, almost sending him sprawling.

Mrs Finch gasped. "Is he drunk?"

Giles was about to reply, when Spike said, "Yeah, I think so. Sad, innit?" and Giles realised Mrs Finch hadn't been talking to him. 

Mrs Finch's thin lips pursed in disapproval. "Dreadful!" 

Suddenly, her claw-like finger, knotted with arthritis but still with a long nail painted the exact same shade as the lurid dressing gown, was jabbing in Giles's direction. "You should be ashamed of yourself – at _your_ age."

Giles blinked. His anger had cooled a little – enough that he found the time to think that talk of age-appropriate behaviour was a bit rich coming from Mrs Finch.

"That's what _I_ said," Spike agreed with her. "In fact, I said to him – Dad, I said-"

"Wha-?" Giles whirled round, in time to see the little shit's face adopt an expression of wide-eyed injured innocence as he addressed Mrs Finch.

"He's your _son_?" The old woman seemed to swell with outrage. Bending down, she scooped one of the cats into her arms and held it close, as if afraid Giles would snatch it from her, while the accusatory finger jabbed towards him again. "There are names for people like you."

It was when Giles realised he was on the point of telling her that Spike wasn't a child and consequently those names didn’t apply, that commonsense finally managed to make its voice heard after all.

"Oh, for heaven's sake!" He grabbed Spike's arm again and propelled him towards the door of his own flat. "I'm sorry you were disturbed, Mrs Finch," he called over his shoulder. "I'll make quite sure it doesn't happen again."

"Nice meeting you," Spike called to her, and Giles shook him irritably.

At the threshold, he paused again to growl, "You're invited. Get in there!" in Spike's ear, before pushing him inside, and then turned to say to his staring neighbour, "And don't listen to him. He'll say absolutely bloody anything, Mrs Finch, to make me look bad. But it’s the drugs talking. How else can you explain the shocking state of him?"

What Mrs Finch might have said in answer, Giles didn't wait to find out. He slammed the door on her outraged face and turned back to Spike.

Then he frowned. When he'd mentioned the state Spike was in to Mrs Finch, he'd done it without thinking, and yet at some point his brain must have registered how much Spike really had changed – for the worse.

His hair, for a start. Instead of the usual well-kempt bleach-blond helmet, Spike's hair was shaggy – a mass of wild curls – and the bleach had faded in places, leaving a pattern of tiger-stripes behind. He was thin too – painfully so - and because his shirt was torn, Giles could see the stark outlines of ribs under his pale skin. 

Worst of all, he stank – more so than any newly risen vampire crusted in grave dirt that Giles had yet come across. He stank of sickness and misery and encrusted grime, layer upon layer, inches thick, and now they were confined in the narrow space of Giles's hallway, the stink was coming off him in waves, poisoning the air.

Giles felt his gorge rise and swallowed hard. No wonder Mrs Finch's cat smell hadn't seemed quite as strong tonight, given the competition.

Spike watched him warily. He indicated the axe. "You gonna finish what you started?"

Giles looked from the axe to the pathetic creature in front of him. He frowned. Then he put the axe down on the hall table. 

"Go and wash," he said. 

Spike blinked and his mouth dropped open. "Come again?"

"You heard me." Giles indicated the bathroom door. "Bathroom's through there."

Spike's mouth shut with a snap. "Bit of a turnaround there, mate," he said, "from wanting to kill me to offering the use of your shower."

Giles kept his eyes fixed on Spike's face. "Oh don't mistake me. I still want to kill you."

Spike blinked again. Then he looked away, head drooping. "S'pose I don't have to ask why?"

"No," Giles agreed. "I don't suppose you do." He indicated the bathroom again. "Bloody get on with it before you stink the place out– and don't lock the door. You forfeited all right to privacy back in Sunnydale when you violated the privacy of others."

He'd expected Spike to protest, but instead the vampire just nodded. "Fair enough," he said.

Giles watched him walk away down the hall, taking his stink with him. He waited until he heard the sound of the shower running before going into the kitchen and pouring himself another whisky.

His anger had receded to a sullen glow, like a banked fire, down but definitely not out. Why Spike had come here, he didn't know, and why he hadn't run when he realised that Giles knew what he'd done was even more of a mystery, but Giles meant to find out the answer to both questions before he rid the world of the little bastard for good.

*

Giles drank his whisky in two quick gulps – a little dutch courage never went amiss – then he went back down the hall to the bathroom.

The room had filled up with steam. He could see Spike's slim shape behind the shower curtain. He was washing his hair. 

His clothes – ripped jeans and torn black shirt, but not the infamous duster – were lying in a crumpled heap on the floor. The sour smell coming from them was unpleasant in the extreme. 

Giles wrinkled his nose. Bending down, he picked up the offensive garments gingerly between finger and thumb and carried them into the kitchen. There, he wadded them up and stuffed them into a black bin-liner, bundling that in turn into the dustbin. Afterwards, he took a can of air-freshener and gave the kitchen and hallway a liberal spraying.

Returning to the bathroom, he stood watching the dark shape behind the curtain for a while longer. Then, as Spike turned off the shower, he reached out and whipped the curtain away.

"Hey!" Spike protested, but then he grimaced. "Oh yeah. Forfeited the right to privacy. I forgot."

"Quite." Giles leaned back against the wall and folded his arms.

Spike might be overly skinny just now, he thought, but even so, he was a very attractive man – if small and rangy, with whipcord muscles was one's idea of attractive. Now he was clean, his pale skin gleamed softly and his wet curls, beaded with water drops, only increased the deceptive look of vulnerability. 

Giles could quite understand why Buffy had succumbed to his dubious charms, particularly when she was so vulnerable herself. 

"Here." He tossed Spike a towel. 

"Thanks." Spike caught it, eyeing him warily. He stepped out of the bath and stood with his back to Giles, drying himself. His back was smooth, though the knobbly bones of his spine were rather too prominent, and his backside, though small, was round and cushioned with plump muscle. 

"Had an eyeful, have you?" Spike turned round and glared at him, but when Giles didn't answer, his gaze dropped again and he sighed. Putting his right foot on the side of the bath, he began to dry between his toes. 

Giles watched him. He watched his soft genitals, shrunken with cold, slapping gently against his thigh.

"Filthy little shit," he said. "I ought to cut your balls off." 

Spike froze. He drew in a great, shuddering breath. Then he said, "Yeah, you prob'ly ought."

Again, it wasn't the answer Giles had been expecting. Suddenly, he was furious again. 

"Don't you dare deny what you did – and don't you fucking _dare_ try to defend yourself."

A muscle twitched in Spike's cheek. His fists clenched at his sides. "I won't," he said. "I wouldn't."

"And – don't – fucking – lie to me!"

Giles accompanied each word with a blow to Spike's naked body. The first caught him low in the belly, doubling him up in pain. The second struck the point of his jaw and knocked him backwards to collide with the side of the bath. The third was a kick to the outside of his left knee, that sent him sprawling to the ground, and the fourth was another kick right in the crotch. 

Spike howled. Tears of pain started from his eyes and he curled himself up in a ball, trying to protect himself. 

Giles drew his foot back for another kick. His heart was racing and his temples throbbed. He wanted nothing more than to beat the little shit until there was nothing left of him but dust and then to grind that dust into the ground beneath his feet, but somehow – with a supreme effort – he controlled himself. 

Instead, he grabbed Spike's arm, hauled him to his feet and dragged him out of the bathroom, listening in some satisfaction to his crowing, painful breaths. 

In the living room, Giles pushed Spike down onto one of the dining chairs. Opening the wooden weapons chest that stood under the front window, he took out a set of cuffs and chains. 

He'd expected Spike to try and run at this point – hoped he would, in fact, since it would afford him the opportunity to give him another good kicking – but Spike just sat there, knees drawn up, gasping, regarding him dull-eyed.

As before, his passivity only increased Giles's anger. He contemplated the pale face, imagining turning the blue eyes black, breaking the arrogant nose, bloodying the full lower lip.

But he did none of those things. Instead, he snapped metal cuffs round Spike's ankles and wrists and chained him to the dining table. It was solid – made of oak – and besides, the chains were vampire-proof. Spike was going nowhere.

Then he grabbed Spike's jaw in his fist.

"Open your mouth."

Spike blinked up at him tearily and Giles shook him. 

"I won't tell you twice, you little shit. Do it."

This time it didn't surprise him when Spike did as he was told and didn't even struggle when he thrust the piece of worn leather into his mouth. Instead, he continued to stare up at Giles, tears of pain rolling down his cheeks.

"That's better." Giles smiled. Spike looked both pathetic and faintly ridiculous, but even so the sight of the resigned blue gaze made him feel uncomfortable. Irritably, he went back to the bathroom and rummaged in the airing cupboard. Then he threw a clean sheet over Spike's huddled form, like a shroud.

He was tired, Giles decided, and he needed a clear head to deal with this unexpected visitation. However, when he went back to bed, sleep was a long time coming.

*

The alarm clock woke him. He still set it for 7am on week days, even though he had no reason to get up so early. He lay, staring at the ceiling, feeling muzzy-headed and stupid.

As usual, the feeling made him vow never to drink whisky late at night again – a vow he knew he would probably break the very same day. 

Grimacing at the inexplicable taste of stained pub carpet in his mouth, he got up and made his way to the bathroom. The signs of his unwelcome visitor were still very much in evidence – from the bathmat on the floor with its dirty footprints to the open bottle of shampoo tipped on its side, its contents run to waste in the bath. 

The bottom of the bath was in a poor state too – full of a gritty, orange residue, like sand.

Giles frowned at the sight, though of course it was hardly the first time that Spike had made the use of his bathroom less than a pleasure.

He rinsed the bath clean and had his own shower, before brushing his teeth and shaving, and it was while he was shaving that it came to him all in a flash what he should do with Spike.

The notion made him smile grimly to himself. Yes, that would be a very fitting ending for him. 

He glanced into the living room before going to dress. The room was dim and Spike’s seated figure stood out stark and white, ghostlike, under its covering. Whether he was awake or asleep, there was no way to tell. Even so, Giles found himself treading very softly as he crossed the room, eyes on the shrouded form. Spike didn’t move, however, or give any indication that he’d heard him. 

Giles took the phone off its cradle and went back to the bedroom. Dressed, he glanced at the clock again – almost 8. Travers was always early. He should be in his office by now. 

He dialled the number. 

“Travers here.” 

The man's voice set Giles's teeth on edge, despite their recent rapprochement – not that there was any love lost between them still. 

“Good morning, Quentin. It’s Rupert Giles.”

“Ah.” Travers didn’t sound best pleased to hear from him, but that would soon change, Giles thought, when he heard what he’d called about.

“How are you?” Travers went on. “And how’s your young protégée doing – the witch?”

Giles scowled at the handset. Travers was so damn nosy. 

“She’s well, I believe,” he said. “Still with the coven. However, that’s not what I’ve called about.”

Travers harrumphed, evidently displeased. “Council business, then. Make it snappy, would you, old chap? I’ve an important meeting to prepare for.”

Nothing would give me greater pleasure, Giles thought. Aloud, he said, “I appear to have come into possession of something that I believe the Council would be very pleased to take off my hands.”

“Indeed?” Travers sounded unimpressed. “And what would that be?”

“A vampire. Rather a notorious one, in fact – William the Bloody, also known as Spike. You recall the name?”

There was a short, pregnant silence. Then, Travers said, “I do indeed.” His voice was full of curiosity now. “Tell me, Rupert –just how did you come to –er, acquire such a thing?”

Giles opened his mouth to reply but then shut it again. He remembered that he still had no idea why Spike had turned up on his doorstep, let alone how.

“Never mind that,” he said, at last. “Do you want him or not?”

Travers appeared to consider the matter. “This would be the same Spike that young Lydia Chalmers interviewed in Sunnydale, would it? The one that was experimented on by agents of the US Government and rendered harmless to humans?”

Giles rolled his eyes. Just how many Spikes did Travers _think_ there were?

“That’s him.”

“Interesting,” Travers said. “Very interesting.” 

When he spoke again, his voice had taken on an insinuating note. 

“Odd thing though, the last time the subject of this particular vampire came up, he seemed to have become a sort of ally of yours. Your report after the battle with Glorificus mentioned him in quite a favourable light, as I recall.”

Giles glared at the phone again. He didn’t want to be reminded of that.

“What of it?”

“I also recall,” Travers went on, “that in the…difficult time afterwards, he continued to assist you. Proved himself quite useful, so you said.”

Giles gripped the handset tightly. He didn’t want to be reminded of that either, especially not by Travers. 

“Are you saying you’re not interested?”

As he’d expected, Travers changed his tune at once. “Not at all, old chap, not at all. I’m just trying to get all the facts straight, that’s all.”

Giles’s temper was rising fast. “The only facts that matter are indisputable. He’s a vampire – a beast – a killer. And I have him here at my flat – chained up and ready for delivery. Are you going to take him off my hands or not?”

“Odd,” Travers opined. “Most odd.” He sighed a put-upon sigh. “However, you’re right about his nature and past crimes. A behaviour modification device can’t change either. Yes, we’ll take him off your hands, but we can’t come for him for a day or so.”

“A day or so?” Giles heard the outrage in his tone too late. Travers would enjoy it far too much. “Why on earth can’t you send a team up to Bath immediately?” 

This time the silence was rather more drawn out, and when Travers spoke again, his voice was sombre. “I’m afraid most of our operatives are busy elsewhere. Things are afoot – things far more urgent than the fate of one vampire, no matter how notorious.”

“Oh? What things?” Giles demanded, but Travers only sighed again.

“I can’t tell you at this stage, Rupert. Strictly need to know, I’m afraid.”

Giles felt the familiar exasperation tinged with resentment as he realised Travers wasn’t going to elucidate any further. Pompous old fool, he thought. He did so love his secrets.

“Still,” Travers went on, as if he were doing him an enormous favour, “I daresay we can get someone out to you by Wednesday. In the meantime, old chap, I know we can trust you to keep an eye on this Spike fellow.”

The line went dead. Giles glared again at the handset and slammed it down on the bedside table. Today was Monday. That meant he either forgot about the whole thing and disposed of Spike himself, or spent two days stuck in his very unwelcome company.

*

“Are you sure this is the size you want? Small to medium?"

With an effort, Giles suppressed his irritation at the dubious expression on the shop assistant's face. The whole world seemed to be conspiring to piss him off today. 

“They’re not for me. They’re for a –friend.”

“Oh, sorry.” The woman looked embarrassed. She began to ring the items through the till while Giles waited, reflecting sourly that, going by past experience, it would probably be months, if not longer, before his expenses claim to the Council was honoured. 

However, he supposed, he had only himself to blame for disposing of Spike’s clothes so precipitately, and charity shop replacements were hardly likely to put him too much out of pocket. 

Even so, handing over the money added to his sour feeling, and his mood didn’t improve when he had to stand in a long queue at the butchers.’ 

For the tenth time, he asked himself why he was doing this. It was only a couple of days. Spike could stay naked and hungry for that long, couldn’t he? And no, it was nothing to do with what that fool Travers had said giving him the very faintest pricklings of a guilty conscience.

Guilt? Giles almost slapped the five-pound note into the startled butcher’s hand as the man handed over the sealed carton of pigs’ blood. Why the hell should he feel guilty about Spike? After what the little bastard had done to Buffy, Spike was getting off easy.

As he walked home up the steep, curving street behind the Circus, packages under his arm, Giles tried to keep his anger clear in his mind. Of course, he didn’t know exactly what had happened between Buffy and Spike. But then he didn’t need to know. 

Just as he didn’t need to remember Spike holding out under Glory’s torture for Buffy’s sake, or doing his share of slaying demons and caring for Dawn during that long, terrible summer. 

He was panting a little by the time he reached his front door – the street was always steeper than he remembered – and things weren’t improved when Mrs Finch’s door shot open as he fumbled with his keys.

Mrs Finch was all in bright, tomato-red today, with matching lipstick and nail varnish. Even so, she was covered in cat hair and accompanied by her usual overwhelming odour of the creatures, one of which was winding itself about her feet.

Giles fitted the key in the front door at last. “Good morning, Mrs Finch,” he said, as pleasantly as he could. 

For answer, the old lady glared at him as if he were the local serial child molester. 

“I’ve got my eye on you, Mr Giles,” she said. “Any more trouble like last night’s and it’ll be the worse for you.”

Giles thought, very briefly, of asking her what she meant – death by cat-odour, perhaps, or maybe she meant to jump out at him _sans_ makeup and bring on a heart attack – his or hers. However, while he still had Spike chained up in his flat, outside interest was something he would rather discourage.

“There won’t be,” he assured her. “My…son will be going away in a day or so. Rehab, you know.”

Mrs Finch didn’t look much mollified. “There was never trouble like this around here until you came,” she said darkly, before going back inside her flat and slamming the door.

Giles was glad to be back inside his own flat – at least, until he thought again of the vampire chained up in his living room. Damn him! When he left Sunnydale, why hadn’t Spike just kept on going?

“Spike?” The living room was dark and still, the hunched shape still unmoving.

Giles’s irritation flared again. “I know you can hear me.” 

Seizing the edge of the sheet, he tore it away. 

Spike looked up at him, and Giles drew in a breath despite himself. Spike's eyes regarded him dully. He looked lost and scared and alone. 

And small, Giles thought. Somehow, until this moment, watching Spike attempt, in vain, to draw his knees up and shield his privates, he’d never realised how small. 

Spike’s prominent Adam’s apple jerked in his throat. There was a trail of dried blood running from the corner of his mouth to his chin. A huge purple bruise bloomed along his jaw and his lower lip was swollen on one side.

As Giles stared, a trickle of saliva slid down the trail the blood had left. 

The pricklings of guilt were becoming a little more insistent as Giles prised the obstruction from Spike's mouth. 

Spike’s jaw worked. He turned his face aside and wiped his chin on his shoulder.

“Thanks,” he muttered.

Giles pursed his lips. “I’ve brought you some clean clothes. I’m going to unshackle your ankles for a moment so you can put the trousers on, then your wrists for the shirt." 

Spike licked dry lips. “Don’t need to chain me up. I won’t run.”

Well, Giles thought, that was the heart of the mystery really. However, once he told Spike about his coming fate, things would no doubt change pretty fast. 

“Here.” Taking the charity shop clothes out of the carrier bag, he dropped the trousers into Spike’s lap. They were black and rather formal -part of a cheap suit perhaps -the material worn verging on shiny. Not Spike’s usual sort of thing at all.

“Thanks,” Spike said again, though with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm.

Nevertheless, he sat quietly while Giles unchained his ankles, stood up to step into the trousers and then sat down again. He didn’t protest at all when Giles re-chained him. The shirt – a vile shade of lavender, but clean at least - was donned with a similar lack of protest.

“Hungry?” Giles asked him. He didn’t see how Spike could be anything else, given how thin he was. There was nothing of him save skin and bone. 

Spike looked at him with the same, dull, hopeless expression.

“Not really. Don’t have much of an appetite these days.”

For some reason, the answer made Giles feel angry again. Was the little bastard trying to elicit his sympathy?

“Too bad,” he snarled. “I stood in the queue at the butchers’ for fifteen minutes to buy you blood. You’ll do me the courtesy of drinking it.”

Spike shrugged, indifferent. “All right.”

What’s wrong with you, you little shit, Giles wanted to shout. Spike hadn’t been quite this subdued the previous night. What had happened to him since then?

Even as he thought it, he remembered. Oh yes, I beat the crap out of him, threw his clothes away and chained him, naked and gagged, to a chair. 

This time the pricklings of conscience were a great deal more insistent.

Gritting his teeth hard, Giles took the carton of blood into the kitchen, poured some into a mug and stuck it in the microwave. As it turned round and round, he remembered with some irritation the way he’d learned exactly how long it should cook for.

Probably, when he'd recovered a little, Spike would revert to type and once again become the impossible houseguest he'd been then– rude, demanding and careless. 

“Dammit!” A root through the kitchen cupboards having failed to produce a straw, Giles returned to the living room even more out of temper at the knowledge that if Spike was to remain chained up, he was going to have to feed him.

When he entered the room again, Spike flinched visibly, and Giles supposed his mood must be only too plain on his face. He was pleased, however. It was the first sign he’d had today that Spike cared at all about his own skin.

“Here,” he said, again, and he held the mug to Spike’s lips.

Spike's lost blue eyes flickered to his face and away again. Then he shut them and began to sip. 

He was slow. Giles tried to up the pace, but when he did so, Spike choked, and he was forced to slow down again. Nevertheless, by the time he was finished, Spike was in game face and there was the faintest tinge of pink in his sunken cheeks.

“Better?” Giles asked him, and received a sullen, yellow-eyed nod.

The sight of that hideous demon visage was enough to stifle the guilt. Was that what Buffy had seen as she struggled with Spike in her bathroom? 

A sudden urge to torment the wretched creature came over Giles. It would serve Spike more than right to spend the next two days pondering his likely fate. 

“I had a word with the head of the Watchers’ Council earlier today.”

“Yeah?” Spike had shaken away his vampire features. His voice was as dull as his eyes. “Nice chat, was it?”

“Very…productive,” Giles assured him. “He agreed to take you off my hands.”

If he’d expected a horrified reaction from Spike at this point, he was doomed to disappointment. Spike looked faintly apprehensive, but then he shrugged again. “Good for him.”

“I wonder what they’ll do to you?” Giles mused. “Of course, they’re very curious about the chip. I doubt they can resist the urge to take a closer look at it.”

Spike stared at him, but he didn’t speak.

“Or perhaps they’ll put you to use at the Academy. They’re always on the look out for good training material. Of course, such material isn't terribly durable as a rule, but valuable lessons can be derived from its disposal.”

Spike looked away. “Fine,” he said, dully. “Can’t say I haven’t deserved it.”

For some reason, the answer infuriated Giles more than anything had yet. Before he knew what he was doing, he’d grabbed Spike by the shoulders and was shaking him.

“I don’t know what’s happened to you,” he shouted. “Why you’re here. But stop bloody pretending, damn you. Just –stop.”

Spike’s head waggled back and forth on his slim neck. “Stop what?” 

Abruptly, Giles let him go. He was panting. Bloody vampire! Why couldn't it just behave like it was supposed to?

“You vicious, soulless little beast,” he snarled, through clenched teeth. “Stop pretending you feel remorse.”

To his complete astonishment, Spike laughed – a short, bitter bark of laughter, nothing like his normal dirty snigger.

“Would love to,” he said. “Can’t though – and I’m not soulless.”

*

The stupefied silence stretched on for a long time, but at last Giles said,

"I _beg_ your pardon?"

Spike's gaze had been steady on his face meanwhile, his expression unreadable. At Giles's words, he tilted his head. 

"I said, I'm not soulless."

Somehow, the words didn't seem to make sense. Giles found he was clutching the chair back rather hard, his fingers making deep indentations in the ancient leather. 

"I heard what you _said_ , but what on earth did you mean by it?"

Spike rolled his eyes. "What d'you _think_ I meant? I have a soul. What else?"

Giles stared at him. Of course he'd known what Spike had been insinuating, but - no, it couldn't be. Abruptly, he was angry again. 

"You couldn't have," he snarled. "I don't believe you."

Spike met his gaze for a moment longer, but then he turned away. 

"Don't then. Doesn't matter now anyway."

Giles stared at Spike's bowed head – his unruly mop of fair curls with the dark roots showing– his skinny body with its stark ribs and concave belly. Suddenly, with utter and complete certainty, he knew that Spike was telling the truth. 

For a moment, he felt dizzy– the world turned on its head. 

"When?" he said. "How?"

Spike looked up at him again. Was there the faintest hint of amusement in his dull gaze?

"Long story. Wouldn't wanna bore you. Think I'll save it for your Watcher mates – keep 'em entertained while they vivisect me." 

The words sent a chill down Giles's spine, even though he'd just taunted Spike with the prospect. He opened his mouth and shut it again while Spike looked at him, still with that same unreadable expression on his face. 

"S'okay," Spike said, after a moment. "Nothing to get excited about. Happens all the time, I expect. An' I was stupid to come here. I get that now."

"Christ!" Somehow, Giles's legs propelled him as far as the nearest empty chair and down into it. He realised he was shaking.

"Why didn't you tell me at once?" 

Spike shrugged yet again.

"Would it've made a difference?" 

Giles took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. His head ached and he was desperate for a drink. 

"Probably not. Now, though –" 

It occurred to him suddenly that perhaps Willow might have been responsible – a bizarre side effect of her grief-induced rampage. Putting his glasses back on, he slid them into place. 

"Tell me, Spike. How did it happen? Was it magic, or were you cursed, like Angel?"

At the mention of Angel's name, Spike's expression grew sour. He scowled. 

"No, it sodding well wasn't – a curse, I mean. Wasn't just done to me. I asked for it back– fought for it fair and square."

Giles gaped at him. The words still didn't seem to make sense. "But – that's impossible. And why on earth would you do such a thing?" 

Spike rolled his eyes again. "What're you -stupid? Why d'you bloody think?" 

But then he deflated almost visibly and his gaze faltered.

"Like I said," he muttered, "it doesn't matter now." 

Giles's head was still whirling. He cleared his throat

"I beg to differ." 

"Yeah?" Spike looked at him again. His tone affected disinterest, but his Adam's apple bobbed, betraying his agitation.

Giles stared deep into Spike's eyes, searching for any hint of deceit and not finding it. 

"Let me get this straight. You're telling me that what happened in Buffy's bathroom – when you – when you - did what you did to her –" his voice ground to a halt. He couldn't articulate the words.

"When I tried to rape her, you mean?" Spike's gaze remained limpid, but the tell-tale muscle ticked in his cheek.

Giles drew in a sharp breath. "Yes – then. You're saying that remorse for your actions that day caused you to go and get your soul back?"

Spike opened his mouth to answer, then shut it again. He chewed his lip. 

"Could say that," he said, at last. "S'only half the story, though." He laughed – another short, sharp bark. "Like everything in Sunnydale, it's complicated."

"But remorse comes into it?" Giles pressed. Suddenly, it was very important to him that Spike should say it was.

Spike's face was sombre. "Yeah." His head drooped. "I told her I'd never hurt her an' I broke my promise. Felt bloody awful about it. Hated her too for makin' me feel that way, but still - "

Giles took his glasses off again. He polished them with his handkerchief while he regarded Spike's slumped form. Spike had just admitted to his crime – the latest of many – but somehow Giles couldn't rekindle his rage of the previous night. 

"I need a drink," he said, suddenly. "You?"

When Spike looked at him this time, his eyes were round with astonishment. He glanced from the clock on the mantelpiece, to Giles's face, and back. 

"Uh – yeah," he said, at last. "A drink would be good."

Giles looked at his watch. 2pm – Spike was right. It was a little early in the day to start drinking. However, in the circumstances…

As he got up, he realised how dim the room still was, and on the way to the door, he paused to switch on the standard lamp. As he did so, he couldn't help noticing how the soft light cast a golden glow on Spike's pale skin.

In the kitchen, he took the whisky bottle and two tumblers out of the cupboard, moving almost on autopilot, very aware of his brain still trying to process what it had just learned.

It didn't make sense. Soulless vampires were unfeeling monsters. Why should Spike care in the least about what he'd done to Buffy?

The answer wasn't a conclusion the Watchers' Academy training manual would ever have led Giles to. Vampires couldn't love, so it asserted, any more than they could feel pity – or remorse.

For a moment, Giles felt dizzy again, as the world seemed to shift under his feet. He wasn't ready by a long chalk to say the manual should be re-written, but perhaps a judicious footnote or two?

Returning to the living room, he set the glasses down on the coffee table and bent to unchain Spike's hands. Spike's wrists looked raw under the worn shirt cuffs, and Giles felt a momentary pang of regret for his injuries. Not enough, however, to make him unchain Spike's ankles.

"Here." He held out the glass.

"Thanks." Spike took it off him and sipped. He winced as the spirit came in contact with his swollen lip.

Giles sat down in the chair opposite again and took a healthy gulp of his own drink. The scotch burned as it slid down his throat. 

"Well," he said. "Bit of a shock, all this."

Blue eyes regarded him over the rim of the glass.

"You're telling me," Spike said, softly.

Giles set his glass down and leaned forward. He couldn't help being curious. "How does it feel?" 

Spike's mouth tightened at the corners. "Like fire."

"Oh?" The brevity of the answer was very unlike the old Spike – usually never at a loss for words. "In what way exactly?"

Spike set his glass down next to Giles's, almost untouched. "Set the old Watcher juices flowin', have I?" he asked, voice tinged with sarcasm.

"Something like that," Giles agreed. "You have to understand, Spike – this is unprecedented. That a vampire – a soulless monster – should voluntarily ask for its soul back –"

Spike raised an eyebrow. "Doesn't happen all the time, then?"

"Hardly." Giles felt light-headed again – a mixture of scotch and a heady dose of intellectual curiosity. "Tell me – how did you do it?"

Spike's face turned stubborn, and for a moment, Giles thought he would refuse to answer, but then Spike sighed and picked up his glass again.

"There's this demon in Africa – Uganda, in fact, right in the middle of the war zone. If you can beat all-comers – survive, whatever he throws at you – he'll give you what you ask for."

"Good lord!" Giles had never heard of such a thing. "That's extraordinary. This demon – what's it called?"

Spike shrugged. "Dunno. Never asked."

His answers were becoming more and more grudging, and suddenly he burst out, "In any case, why should _you_ care? I'll be off your hands soon enough – on my merry way to the dissecting table. In view of that, think I'll keep what else I know to myself – can use it, maybe, to bargain for a quick death." 

"I…understand." The chill went down Giles's spine again. He wished more than anything that he'd never called Travers. 

He cleared his throat again. "There is one other thing, though –something that's of no interest to anyone save myself." 

"Yeah?" Spike's gaze was hostile now, the faintest tinge of yellow in his eyes. "What's that, then?"

"Why did you come _here_ – to me?"

The yellow was gone, like a candle sputtering out.

"Told you," Spike muttered, "it doesn't matter now."

"Yes it does." Giles willed Spike to see the truth in his words, as he'd looked for the truth in Spike's. "It matters to me."

Spike chewed his lip again, considering. "You'll laugh."

"Not very likely." Nothing, Giles reflected, about today had yet struck him as funny.

Spike picked up the glass again, tilted his head back and drained the contents in one swift gulp. 

"You remember a while back – before Buffy did her swan dive off Glory's tower– Dru came back to Sunnydale and there was…a spot of bother?"

"I remember." As Giles recalled, the incident hadn't been one of Spike's finest hours – not that there were many to choose from. 

"Yeah, well." Spike looked embarrassed. "I came to the Magic Shop, makin' excuses, and you told me – "

"To get over it." Giles poured himself another drink, eyes on Spike all the while. "Yes, I recall it well. What of it?"

"I'd never seen you like that." Spike wouldn't meet his eyes now. "'We're not your friends', you said, 'not your way to Buffy. There _is_ no way to Buffy'. Don't mind admitting it, you scared the crap out of me."

"Really?" Giles felt absurdly pleased. He frowned to hide it. "Like I said, what of it?"

Spike's face worked. When he looked at Giles again, his expression was anguished.

"Resented it like hell at the time. Wanted to kill the whole fucking lot of you – 'cept the Bit, maybe. But now I realise it needed saying – needed _you_ sayin' it. And – and-" His voice faltered to a stop. He cleared his throat. "And I need you to say it again."

As the words sank in, all his pent-up rage from the previous night came rushing back, and Giles was on his feet, towering over Spike, fists clenched. "Are you trying to insinuate that you had some notion of going back to Sunnydale – ever - after what you did to Buffy?"

Spike didn't seem daunted this time. "No," he said. "At least – " and he dropped his gaze – "only if she asked me – if she needed my help." 

His mouth twisted in a wry smile. "Not that I'm saying the idea _never_ crossed my mind. Was so stupid – thought having a soul made all the difference – until I got one." 

Giles took a deep breath, forcing himself to relax. "So, if you didn't come here wanting me to –to dissuade you from that course of action, then why?" 

The anguished expression was back. "I'm lost," Spike said, simply. "I dunno who I am – dunno _where_ I am half the time. I knew I couldn't go back – burnt _those_ bridges – I thought you could set me right – teach me to be a good man." His Adam's apple bobbed violently again. "Like you."

"Oh." Giles sat down again with a thump. To say he felt stunned was a crass understatement.

"Yeah," Spike went on, oblivious. "And not just that. Like I said, you scared the crap out of me that time. Thought you could control me – stop me from goin' wrong." He shut his eyes and Giles couldn't help noticing the wetness at their corners. "And in the meantime, _they_ keep whispering in my ears, and it burns- oh God, it burns!" 

The hairs on the nape of Giles's neck prickled unpleasantly. "They?"

Spike's eyes stayed shut. His voice had taken on an eerie, broken quality. "So many of them – all telling me to go to hell, where I belong."

With a shudder, Giles realised Spike meant his victims – his many, many victims.

"You can see them?" he asked, still curious despite himself. 

Spike's blue eyes snapped open. He blinked, as if waking up from a dream. Then he made a face. "Sometimes – yeah, I think so. Other times –" and he shuddered – "I know I'm just goin' mad."

It was on the tip of Giles's tongue to tell him it was only what he deserved, but he bit back on the words. How would Spike's insanity profit anyone?

Abruptly, he leaned down and unfastened the shackles around Spike's ankles. The cuffs fell free with a loud, metallic clank. 

"Wha-" Spike jumped, startled.

"You're free to go," Giles said – hurriedly, before he changed his mind. "Get out of here, Spike – and don't come back."

Spike blinked again. "What about your Watcher mates?"

"What about them? They've managed all these years without the pleasure of your company. I'm sure they can manage a while longer. Now – go."

Spike's mouth set stubbornly. "No."

"What?" Giles was on his feet again at once. He grabbed Spike by the arm and hauled him upright. "Get lost, I said." And he tried to push him towards the door.

But Spike stood his ground, and no matter how hard Giles shoved him, he wouldn't budge. "No fucking way." His blue eyes pleaded. "Please."

Giles ignored the desperation in those eyes. Spike wasn't his responsibility and he wasn't going to allow him to become so. "I said, bugger off."

Spike grabbed hold of the chair, standing his ground. He began to babble.  
"Can earn my keep – can be useful."

"Oh?" Giles tugged at him again. "How?"

The next moment, to his complete astonishment, Spike's lips were pressed to his. He gasped, and a cold mobile tongue darted inside his open mouth.

Giles flailed his arms. He grabbed hold of Spike's shirt and pushed him, and at once, the tongue was gone. Instead, Spike was staring at him, wide-eyed and terrified, while the cold shock of his touch seemed to roll over Giles's body in waves, quickening his pulse and starting a familiar tingling at his groin.

"What the hell-" Giles began, but Spike interrupted him, words almost tripping over themselves in his haste to fill the shocked silence.

"Or can be useful in other ways. Your neighbour, for instance – the mad old bag with the cats – bet you didn't realise she was a demon, did you?"

*

Giles peered round the edge of the living room curtains into the little lobby his flat shared with Mrs Finch's. There was no sign of the old woman, and her curtains were also drawn, though it was still light outside.

He glanced back over his shoulder at Spike, who stood close behind him – too close, in fact. Since the kiss, Giles had become hyper-sensitive to Spike's presence. The air in the room felt subtly charged too; as if they were connected together by an electrical circuit and someone had switched on the current. 

Giles told himself to ignore the feeling, and not to remember the slim, pale shape in his bathroom, bending over to dry itself, while one lazy water drop slid down a smooth back to disappear into the dark cleft between twin globes of muscle. 

"Are you certain about this?"

"Yeah." Spike's eyes were bright in the gloom, the pupils reflecting what little light there was. "Told you, she's a Meowlur demon – nasty, bloody things. Don't wanna get too close to 'em."

Giles let the curtain drop. In spite of Spike's apparent sincerity, it seemed a likely story. 

"And you're not just saying it to try and prevent me throwing you out of the house?"

Spike blinked. "Well…yeah, but that doesn't change the facts."

Giles walked round Spike and back to his chair. "You'll have to forgive my scepticism, Spike, but this does seem a little – shall we say - convenient?" 

He sat down and reached for the whisky bottle. "Also, from what I understand, Mrs Finch has lived here for donkey's years, so even if you're correct about her –er, nature, she's not doing anyone any harm." 

"Yeah well," Spike shot back, "you try telling the neighbourhood moggies that. Don't think they'd agree."

Giles paused, bottle in hand. "What on earth do you mean? It's true, she's a cat lover, but apart from the dreadful smell, she seems harmless enough."

Spike laughed. "Cat lover? That's one way of putting it." He took Giles's place at the window and peered out round the curtain. "You get much in the way of missing pets around here? Photos stuck on lamp posts -poor old Tiddles, missing since a week last Tuesday an' such?"

Giles finished pouring his drink. He frowned, trying to remember. "Perhaps. I'm not sure. In all honesty, Spike, I don't take much notice of that kind of thing."

"Pity," Spike sneered. "If you had, and if you weren't so busy rotting your brain with booze, you might have remembered that Meowlur demons give off a powerful pheromone that's irresistible to cats. The old dear have a lot of them, does she?"

Giles realised his mouth had dropped open at the sheer effrontery of Spike's comment on his drinking. He shut it with a snap while Spike stared at him defiantly. Then he said, "As a matter of fact, she does."

Spike tilted his head. "Ever seen the same one more than once?" 

Giles frowned. "I have no idea."

Spike turned back to the window. "Would imagine not. Meowlur demons're hungry buggers."

This time Giles didn't bother trying to hide his astonishment. "She _eats_ them?"

When Spike looked back at him, he was smirking. "Well – yeah. What else?"

His expression turned serious again. "But soon cats won't be enough. Like I said, Meowlur demons are greedy. Won't be long before she turns her attention to the human population, starting with the kids. Meowlurs have been known to nab babies from their prams right under their mums' noses."

At this, Giles felt his scepticism returning. "Now you're being absurd. As I said, she's lived here for a long time. If she were in the habit of kidnapping children and eating them, don't you think someone would have noticed by now?"

Spike's gaze was fixed on the tiny sliver of darkening daylight through the gap in the curtains.

"Not really. See – she probably _was_ a harmless, cat-loving old bat until recently. Now, she's a Meowlur demon in a Mrs Finch suit."

He looked back at Giles as he said this, grinning like he'd said something clever, but the reference was lost on Giles. The inference behind it, however, was not.

"You're saying that this Meowlur demon has already devoured Mrs Finch and now it's impersonating her?"

Spike rolled his eyes. "Finally he gets it. Yeah, that's _exactly_ what I'm saying."

Giles felt another twinge of irritation at Spike's failure to make himself clear from the start, though it was typical of him. 

At the same time, he remembered Mrs Finch's earlier parting shot about any more trouble and it would be the worse for him. Suddenly, her threat sounded a great deal more sinister.

Spike tensed. "Cat!" 

Giles set his glass down and joined him at the window, to see a large black and white cat sitting on Mrs Finch's doormat. As they watched, it set its front paws to the door and began to scrabble on it, demanding entrance while it mewed piteously.

"See!" Spike's voice had sunk to a hoarse whisper. "Pheromones. Poor little buggers can't resist 'em."

As they watched, the front door of number 2 began to open and a moment later, Mrs Finch was standing there. Giles had just time to register her horrible bright red lipstick and the claw-like red nails before Spike let the curtain drop and sprinted for the door.

"Stay here," he said, to Giles. "I'll handle it."

"Idiot! Where are you going?"

Giles hurried after him, knocking against the table as he went and almost toppling the bottle of whisky. By the time he reached the hall, the front door was already open and Spike was out in the lobby accosting the startled Mrs Finch in cheerful tones.

"Hello again." 

The axe was still lying on the hall table where Giles had left it last night. He scrabbled it into his hand in passing, while Mrs Finch snatched up the black and white cat and attempted to retreat inside.

"Stay away from me," she said, to Spike. "I know all about _your_ sort."

Spike was too quick for her, however. He was across the lobby in a flash and blocking Mrs Finch's attempts to close her front door.

"Nice cat," he said, still in the same cheerful voice. "Feeling peckish, are we?"

Mrs Finch shoved hard against the door, but Spike didn't budge.

"You're mad," she screeched. "I'll call the police – I'm warning you."

Giles hefted the axe in his hands. Spike was already half way across Mrs Finch's threshold and definitely uninvited, so it seemed he was telling the truth after all. 

"Sod _that_!" Suddenly, Spike vamped out again, heavy brow ridges drawing down and yellow eyes blazing. He shoved back hard and Mrs Finch gave ground to him, shrieking like a banshee. The next moment, Spike was inside her flat, Giles right behind him.

At once, they were surrounded by an intermingled odour of cats and rotting flesh so strong that Giles's stomach heaved. He bent over, retching, the sour taste of regurgitated whisky in his mouth. 

There was no light anywhere in the flat and the darkness seemed to throb as they followed Mrs Finch up the hallway in the direction of the kitchen.

"Get out of my house," Mrs Finch screamed. "I won't warn you again."

"Ah, give it up, Grandma," Spike sneered. "I know what you are. Come out and die, there's a good Meowlur demon."

Giles's ears were hurting by this time from the throbbing noise, while the smell assaulted his nostrils like a live thing. He realised he was panting. There didn't seem to be enough oxygen in the air. 

For a horrible moment, he thought that maybe he was having a heart attack, but then a hideous snarling roar split the air and Spike hurled himself bodily at the old woman.

Mrs Finch went down with Spike on top of her, while the black and white cat squirmed free of her grip and made a break for the door. 

"Spike – wait." Giles ran forward, axe in hand, in time to catch a glimpse of Spike, as it seemed, about to punch an elderly lady in the face, before that face began to blur, the sagging flesh bulging strangely, until the features were completely distorted. Suddenly, the bright red lipstick outlined a gash of a mouth filled with teeth like a shark's, while the cheeks sank back and the nose grew hugely prominent. 

In fact, Mrs Finch's whole body shape was changing, blurring and billowing like a sheet flapping in the wind. When Spike's fist connected with her jaw, the knuckles sank into flesh like rubber and rebounded. 

Mrs Finch opened her mouth and roared back at him, foul breath smelling of meat, tainting the air. A moment later, the undulating body had shaken Spike off altogether and he was gone from sight, and a creature that seemed all teeth and bright red claws was barrelling down the hall in Giles's direction.

"Watcher!" Mrs Finch hissed, in a voice that no longer resembled anything remotely human. "I _knew_ you'd be trouble the moment I set eyes on you."

"Oh dear lord!" Giles gave ground hurriedly, hefting the axe as he went. The hallway was narrow, but given the way Mrs Finch's body continued to undulate and attempt to fill the space, that was probably more to his advantage than hers. 

Its, Giles told himself, crossly. It's not Mrs Finch. It's the thing that killed her.

He swung the axe -only for the weapon to rebound the way Spike's fist had done, jarring his arms. A moment later, a hand seized him by the throat. Rubbery fingers, thick as sausages, squeezed hard and Giles felt claws digging into him. The foul breath in his face made his gorge rise again.

"You've made me ruin a perfectly good outfit," the Meowlur demon hissed, while gobbets of saliva struck Giles on the cheek. "Maybe I'll take yours instead."

The fingers squeezed harder and Giles saw stars in front of his eyes. He dropped the axe and put his own hands up to his throat, wrestling with the demon, while it dragged him inexorably towards its billowing body, as if trying to absorb him.

Oh God, it _was_ trying to absorb him! Giles dug his feet in hard, but it was no use. The Meowlur demon was too strong for him. 

"It's teatime, dearie," it slobbered. "Come to the table like a good boy." 

Then, horribly, it laughed – a sucking, gurgling sound, like bubbles erupting from some noxious swamp. "From beneath you, it devours," it intoned. 

"Spike!" Giles managed to gasp out. "Where the _hell_ are you?"

Inches away from the undulating body, he shut his eyes. There were times when it was better not to look death in the face. He could hear the Meowlur demon slavering, while already he was drowning in the foulness of its breath. 

Then, so suddenly that he went staggering backwards, the demon let go of him. Giles opened his eyes again to see it still filling the hallway, but now the billowing had taken on an agitated quality. The Meowlur demon's stumps of arms flailed. Its mouth opened and closed, serrated teeth glinting in the dim light from the open door. 

Then it screamed - the noise ear-splittingly loud in the enclosed space. 

Giles swore and covered his ears, but it didn't help much. The sound seemed to permeate his body right down to the bone. But he kept his eyes on the demon, whose agitation grew ever greater, until suddenly, with a horrible tearing, squelching sound, it exploded.

Giles had just time to shut his eyes again before chunks of dead Meowlur demon began to rain down on him.

*

"Well, that was…special."

There was something noxious dripping down Giles's face. Eyelids squeezed shut, he wiped his sleeve across it, before turning to glare at Spike.

Spike was standing on the other side of the Meowlur demon's gently smoking remains. He was holding a poker, the tip of which was smoking too. 

"What – happened?" Giles's voice came out a croak. His neck hurt, where the Meowlur demon had squeezed it.

Spike tilted his head. "What d'you bloody think happened? I killed it."

As he spoke, a chunk of Meowlur demon slid from his hair onto his shoulder with a horrible squelching noise. Belatedly, Giles realised that Spike was as splattered as he was.

"I meant, _how_ did you kill it – idiot!" Equally splattered or not, Giles decided, Spike was to blame – rushing in like a bull in a china shop. He could have got them both killed.

Spike grinned, waving the poker. "Brass," he said. "Copper or alloys of it're the only things that'll kill a Meowlur demon. God, they must've been so fucked off in the Bronze Age." 

He let the poker drop. "Knew the old girl'd have an old-fashioned hearth with a brass poker and tongs, and sure enough she did."

So that's where Spike had disappeared to, while he'd been struggling for his life. Giles gave him a sour look.

"You might have said."

Spike shrugged. "No time. Once its hiding place was discovered, I knew all hell would break loose."

Giles winced as another chunk of Meowlur demon plopped from his head to his shoulder leaving a sticky trail in his hair.

"All the same," he gritted, "your handling of this - this episode leaves a great deal to be desired."

Spike's face fell. He seemed to shrink almost visibly. 

Then he came forward, squelching through the remains, and held out his hand to Giles. "Sorry you got hurt, Giles – but I did tell you to stay out of it."

Giles reflected that this was true – and what's more, he wished now that he'd listened.  
He allowed Spike to haul him to his feet, chunks of Meowlur demon cascading off him in the process. 

"God, you look awful," Spike said. " _And_ you stink something terrible."

"You don't look so brilliant yourself." Giles stared at the remains of the demon. Horribly, he could see fragments of Mrs Finch amongst the debris – bits of red material – a human finger with one bright red nail – even the old woman's glasses.

Spike's face was sober. "Poor old soul."

"Quite." Giles felt his stomach heave again. Had he ever met the real Mrs Finch at all, he wondered –and what on earth had the creature meant -from beneath you, it devours? Did it dispose of its victims feet-first?

"And I wouldn't go in the kitchen," Spike went on, still muted. "Meowlur demons have bloody awful table manners – bits of dead cat everywhere."

This – along with the smell – was too much. Giles turned his back on the slaughter, picked up the axe and wavered his way towards the door. 

Spike followed him. "What'll we do about this mess?"

Giles could hardly bring himself to care, but of course he was a Watcher and there were established procedures to follow. He paused and looked back, taking in the carnage one last time. 

"We'll leave it for now. I'll seal the flat with magic and send for the Council clean-up team."

On the threshold of his own flat, and with Mrs Finch's front door firmly closed, he said the words of the spell that would prevent anyone except those in the know from gaining entry to number 2, or even wanting to.

When he turned back, it was to discover Spike busy taking off his clothes.

"What on earth are you doing?"

Spike raised an eyebrow. "Don't wanna track gunge all over your carpet, do I?" He wadded up the lurid lavender shirt and dropped it in the porch, then began to undo his flies. "If I were you, I'd do the same."

And just like that, the charged feeling was back in the air. Suddenly, Giles was uncomfortably aware of blood rushing in an embarrassing direction- and what on earth was Spike playing at, stripping off in public?

Hurriedly, he bundled the half-naked vampire off the doorstep and into his flat, and slammed the front door behind them. The axe fell to the floor with a clank.

"Hey!" Spike protested, but a moment later, Giles had him pinned against the wall with a hand at his throat and was glaring down at him.

"Why did you kiss me earlier?"

Spike blinked. "My mouth slipped?"

Giles shook him, exasperated. 

"Stop trying to seduce me!"

As before, Spike didn't even attempt to struggle. Instead, he stared up at Giles from limpid blue eyes. "I'm not."

"Like _hell_ you're not. I wasn't born yesterday, Spike. Your attempt to impress me with your demon killing skills was a failure, so you've gone back to Plan A."

Giles felt the tell-tale bobbing of Spike's Adam's apple under his hand. 

"Explain yourself," he growled.

Spike's gaze dropped.

"All right, then. I _am_ trying to seduce you. Satisfied?"

Giles didn't relax his hold. "God, you're so transparent. What on earth were you thinking, Spike? For that matter, what on earth made you ever believe I would be – be amenable?"

Spike looked up again.

"Knew you swung both ways," he said. "I've always known it. Can smell it, remember? And last night, when you watched me drying myself, you wanted me. Don't deny it."

Giles shook him again. "What if I did? Like I said, I'm not naïve, Spike. I'm not a young man – far from it -and I know you can't possibly find me attractive. But you want something from me, so you're offering your worthless carcass, which is all you have left." 

A wave of the red rage he'd felt the previous night washed over him, and he leaned closer, punctuating every word with another shake, while Spike shrank away from him. 

"What the hell do you think I am? I don't go where I'm not wanted. I'm not a rapist, like you."

Spike flinched, but then he turned a defiant gaze on Giles.

"You're wrong," he said. "Bloody _do_ find you attractive – always have, in fact." 

The next moment, he'd risen onto the balls of his feet and his cool lips were once more pressed to Giles's. 

Giles froze, and then, before his brain could even process what was happening, he found he was kissing Spike back, mashing their mouths frantically together – cold tongue, the scrape of stubble, hands pulling at his hair. Spike moaned into his mouth and Giles felt something hard poking him in the thigh.

Somehow or other, he manoeuvred Spike along the hall to the bathroom without breaking the kiss. Somehow, the shower was started, clothes torn off, and then hot water was streaming over both of them, washing away the sticky detritus of the Meowlur demon. 

"Oh God!" Spike's hands were cold as his mouth, but as the hot water continued to sluice down and the room filled up with steam, his skin began to heat up. Giles ran wondering hands over flesh as pale and perfect as marble, smooth skin a scant covering over sinew and bone – no spare flesh anywhere, save below the coccyx where the two plump curves of muscle were a generous fit in his spread palms.

What Spike made of him –middle-aged, soft-bellied, hairy – Giles had no idea, but his face showed no sign of disgust – quite the opposite in fact, as he slid sinuously to his knees to take Giles into his mouth.

Giles gasped and braced himself against the wall, gazing down at the bobbing blond head with its wet curls – the pink lips tightening and loosening as Spike sucked on him with a will. 

He told himself this was a vampire he was looking at – a sinful, unclean creature – and yet, he'd never seen anything more beautiful. 

Spike's hands gripped Giles's thighs. He tilted his head back, eyes closed. Giles felt the moment that his throat opened, taking him the whole way in. Smooth muscle rippled as Spike deep-throated him. He couldn't help reaching down to brush a water drop, like a tear, from the corner of one closed eyelid.

The sensation was exquisite – like nothing Giles had ever felt, putting even Ethan's considerable skills in the shade. Soon, he felt the familiar tingling sensation start up in his balls, becoming stronger and stronger until instinct took over and he grabbed Spike's head between his hands, holding him still while he thrust once, twice, and emptied himself down the willing throat.

At some point, Giles realised, his knees must have given way, because he found himself sitting on the floor of the bath, with Spike cradled in his arms while the shower rained down on them. 

Spike's head was resting on his shoulder and Giles couldn't see his face, which suddenly seemed a very bad thing. Cupping Spike's chin in his hand, he tilted his head back to gaze deep into his eyes, searching for – Giles wasn't quite sure what. Calculation perhaps? Any hint of deception?

Again, he found neither. 

Spike looked tired, eyes deeply shadowed, but he grinned. "Was it good for you too?"

Giles opened his mouth to say yes, but then he became aware of that same hard object nudging against him, and when he looked down, Spike was still rampant.

Suddenly, he felt almost apologetic – and deathly tired. Did good manners dictate he should reciprocate in kind, because he didn't feel like he currently had the energy?

Spike must have guessed the tenor of his thoughts, because he took Giles's hand in his and twined their fingers together. 

"Don't worry about me," he said. "I'm fine – had a gay old time of it, in fact."

Giles rolled his eyes. "Very funny."

Spike laughed – his familiar laugh this time, the knowing, dirty snigger. " _I_ thought so." Then he shivered. "Water's running cold."

It was. With a weary sigh – because he was too tired to move suddenly – Giles reached up and turned off the shower. Then he wavered to his feet.

"We'd better get dry."

"Yeah." Spike watched him as he climbed out of the bath. His mouth was hanging open slightly, but then he shut it and licked his lips with his long, pink tongue.

"Fuck," he said. "You look bloody amazing."

At this, Giles felt the blood rushing in the opposite direction to before. He grabbed a towel off the rail and wrapped it around his waist, feeling hot and embarrassed and irritable.

"You're a very poor liar, Spike. Astonishing really, given how much practice you must have had."

Spike frowned. He climbed out of the bath in his turn and reached for his own towel.

"Not bloody lying," he growled.

Giles opened his mouth to repeat the accusation, but then shut it again. Bizarrely, from his hurt tone, it seemed that Spike had meant what he said.

"You're – odd," Giles said, which hardly began to cover it. "Very odd indeed."

"Yeah well," Spike was drying himself, the brisk rubbing raising a hectic pink flush on his skin, "that's rich, coming from the bloke with the bloody enormous leather ball-gag stashed away in his weapons chest."

Giles opened his mouth again, this time to tell Spike that it had rather suited him, but again he thought better of it. Instead, he went up close to him, set a hand on his shoulder and indicated the importunate flesh at his groin.

"Let me deal with that for you."

Spike had frozen at his touch. When he looked up, his gaze was almost shy. "Told you," he said, "there's no need. Besides, later, when you're up to it, I want you to –" and he leaned up and whispered in Giles's ear.

Giles felt himself grow hot again at what he heard, but this time the feeling was one of pleasant anticipation rather than embarrassment. He put one hand on Spike's rather tempting little bottom and squeezed. "I'd be delighted."

Spike grinned. "Hoped you would – an' dreamin' about it will see me through till morning."

*

Giles woke in the middle of the night. He lay in the pitch dark, staring up at the ceiling, feeling odd and out of sorts. After a moment, he realised why that was. Firstly, he hadn't had a drink before going to bed and, as a consequence, he was unusually clear-headed for this time of night. Secondly, there was a cool, inert body lying in the bed next to him.

The memory of it froze him in place. His mind raced, while a small, insistent voice demanded to know what the hell he thought he was doing. This was Spike, the voice shouted – and what if he _was_ neutered? What if he _did_ have a soul? He'd still murdered thousands, hadn't he, including two Slayers? He'd still tried to rape Buffy.

Oddly, despite the evident truth of what the voice said, Giles couldn't rekindle his righteous fury. The man who'd come to him yesterday begging for help – who lay in bed beside him – would never do those kinds of things.

The shock of the revelation was so intense that Giles sat up abruptly. He'd never held to Buffy's view that Angel wasn't responsible for the crimes of Angelus – and certainly Angel himself hadn't seemed to agree with her – but in a way, it was true after all.

Because here was Spike, still a murderer, still a rapist, and yet at some fundamental level a completely different person – someone who wanted to be good. 

Giles grimaced. He was becoming fanciful in his old age – and yet he knew now that he was going to allow Spike to stay. If Spike needed him to keep him on the straight and narrow – to set him right – it was his duty to do his best to help him.

In fact, he thought, he should be flattered – honoured, even – that Spike thought him up to the task. 

Spike had been lying still as a corpse, but suddenly he stirred and muttered to himself. The next moment, he was thrashing wildly.

"Please –" he wailed, sounding oddly childlike. "I don’t want to. Don't make me."

"Spike – wake up." Giles reached out and shook him and after a moment longer of panicked floundering, Spike's eyes flew open and he sat up with a jerk, shaking all over. His eyes were glowing and yellow and Giles realised he'd vamped out. 

He resisted his immediate impulse, which was to leap out of bed and get as far away from the bloodthirsty vampire as possible, and set a hand on Spike's arm.

"Spike – it's all right. You're safe. Calm down now."

Spike stared at him. The cat-like yellow eyes blinked once, very, very slowly.

Unnerved in spite of himself, Giles reached out and turned on the bedside lamp. He could see that Spike was very distressed, despite the hideous, inhuman features

"It's all right," he said again, gently. "You're with me. You're safe."

Spike drew in a deep breath and let it go. He shook his head, and his vampire fangs and ridges sank away. He looked sheepish.

"Sorry," he muttered. "Didn't mean to disturb you."

Giles set a hand on his trembling shoulder. "It's all right. You didn't."

Spike nodded, looking relieved. He didn't say anything else, just breathed, trying to get himself under control. 

Giles licked his dry lips. He wanted a drink – which was bad. When had it come about that he couldn't function without one? Irritated, he tried to ignore the feeling.

"Were you dreaming?" he asked. 

Spike nodded. He was pale – even for him – and the livid bruise on his jaw stood out startlingly. "Was alone," he said. "In the dark- forever. Knew I deserved to be." He threw Giles a hopeless look. "S'okay, though. Can cope with that. Better'n the voices."

Giles felt chilled suddenly. "Voices?"

Hunching his shoulders, Spike grimaced. "Yeah – like I told you – all tellin' me to get to hell, where I belong."

When he looked at Giles this time, his eyes were big and scared. "Was such an idiot. Never thought it'd be like this." 

"What _did_ you think it would be like?" Again, Giles couldn't help being curious.

Spike laughed his short, bitter laugh, and this time there was an aching quality to it.

"Dunno really – rainbows, pixie dust. I'd come back wearin' a halo and Buffy would see she'd been wrong about me."

"And now?" 

Spike grimaced. "Now, I know I'm dirt under her feet, an' always will be, and –" he tapped his forehead with his finger, "There're – things, tryin' to get in." 

His eyes seemed to lose focus, staring over Giles's shoulder.

"Sometimes, they tell me to kill. That if I do, I'll feel better." 

Giles shivered. "How – peculiar."

Spike blinked and focused on his face again. "Yeah, something weird's goin' on all right."

Giles shivered again, but suddenly he felt more determined than ever to keep Spike close to him. Any fool could see he was in a vulnerable state – all too easily exploited by the powers of darkness, if left to his own devices. 

"You know something else too," he said. "You know that you need help."

Spike's eyes were steady on his face. "True. Not hers, though. Could never ask."

"No," Giles agreed. "Best not. However, Spike, I think you were quite right to ask for mine."

"I was?" Spike looked wary. In spite of the fact that they were sharing a bed, it seemed he still feared ultimate rejection.

Giles frowned. _Had_ that business last night been what he'd assumed it to be after all? He tamped down on his disappointment. It didn't change anything. 

"Indeed." He kept his face stern. "I was going to tell you in the morning, but since we're awake, no time like the present. I _will_ help you, Spike. We'll sort you out – get to the bottom of whatever it is that's going on with you."

Spike continued to gaze at him, but slowly his expression softened and the tension went out of his shoulders. 

"Thanks, Giles," he said. "I appreciate it."

"Tomorrow," Giles went on, "I'll inform the Council that you escaped – their own damn fault, if they can't hurry up and collect you – and then I'll drive you to a place of safety. They'll never think to look for you there."

He wondered briefly what the coven would say when he turned up with yet another stray in tow – this one a vampire to boot. However, they were a broad-minded bunch. He was sure they could cope.

Spike was still staring at him. Suddenly, he leaned forward and kissed him.

"Thank you," he said, again, an almost fervent tone in his voice.

The cool lips seemed to burn, like regret. Giles set a finger to his tingling mouth. He cleared his throat.

"And you don't – you don't have to pretend you want me any more. It's very – er, generous of you, Spike, but it's not necessary."

Spike's mouth dropped open. He frowned.

"How many times do I bloody have to say it?" he growled. "Not bloody _pretendin_.'

He leaned forward to whisper in Giles's ear again. "You've no idea how long I've fantasised about this – bein' in your bed – under you –" His breath tickled the short hairs on Giles's nape. "Remember what I said I wanted you to do to me? Bloody meant every word of it, all right?"

"Spike –" Giles set his hand on a cool thigh, but it was already too late to say no, even if he'd wanted to, and when Spike gave him an enigmatic look and rolled over onto his belly, he knew he _didn't_ want to.

No, he wanted to take what was being offered, for whatever reason, and – well, not quite be damned to the consequences.

"Spike – we shouldn't. This isn't what you need from me."

Spike looked back at him over his shoulder. "S'part of it. Been better since I got here. Much better." He quirked an eyebrow in the direction of the half-full whisky bottle on the nightstand. "Could be better for you too. Keep you off the rotgut – give you something else to think about."

Giles had already set a hand on one of the delectable curves of pale flesh. At this, he frowned and gave it a smart tap – hard enough to make Spike jump.

"That's enough – unless you want the ball-gag again."

Spike waggled his eyebrow. "Maybe later."

*

Spike twitched his shoulders. Then he scratched his neck.

Giles frowned irritably. Spike was such a fidget it was hard to keep his eye on the road.

"Do keep still, Spike."

Spike folded his arms. For a moment, he almost pouted.

"S'not my fault. This jacket's bloody itchy."

At this, Giles had to suppress a smile. Spike's dislike of his latest outfit was all too evident. It had been unavoidable, though. With the demise of the charity shop clothes after the Meowlur demon incident, and the necessity for a hasty departure come dusk, there'd been no time to buy him anything else so he'd had to make do with old clothes of Giles's.

They were far too big, of course, especially the trousers, which had had to be rolled up several times at the waist. As a result, Spike bore an unmistakeable resemblance to an undersized teenage boy who'd dressed up in his father's clothes.

Well, Giles reflected, it wasn't _quite_ true to say there'd been no time to buy Spike another outfit, but instead that they'd used that time rather more profitably.

As a consequence, he himself was all shagged out, as the expression went, and Spike had proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that he did indeed suit a ball-gag. He probably wasn't sitting very comfortably either.

Giles shook his head. If he kept thinking along these lines, there was a likelihood of them never reaching their destination at all. He frowned and told himself to concentrate, while the headlights of faster cars zipped by in the right-hand lanes.

"I'll pick you up something else to wear as soon as I can," he soothed. "In the meantime –" and he couldn't help teasing a little –"you look rather sweet, in my opinion."

"Sweet!" Spike growled, but he didn't protest further, just began scratching again to show his displeasure.

The Westbury exit was coming up. Giles slowed down and began to indicate. As he did so, Spike said, "What're you gonna tell Buffy?"

The question was so unexpected, Giles turned to gape at him. Then he had to swing the wheel over hard to prevent them ending up in a ditch, the driver behind them blaring his horn in protest as he drove past.

Giles scowled at Spike. "Next time you decide to spring a question like that on me, can you please give me some warning?" 

"Sorry," Spike muttered, sounding contrite. His restless hands fiddled with the hem of the old tweed jacket. "S'pose you don't plan to say anything to her then? Keep me your little secret?"

Giles sighed. There was a layby coming up. He indicated again and pulled into it. With the car stopped and the engine switched off, he turned to look Spike full in the face. 

"If you mean I don't plan to tell her that we're – whatever we are, you're right, Spike. I think, in the circumstances, she wouldn't take it well."

Spike's gaze dropped. "You're prob'ly right."

He looked oddly pathetic, Giles thought, dressed in the too big jacket and shirt, and wearing a tie. Not like Spike at all. In fact, with his pale, pretty face and his tousled mane of brown-blond curls, he looked more like a Victorian romantic poet than a vampire.

Mind you, the still-swollen lip and the bruised jaw did rather spoil the effect.

Giles reached out and touched the bruise with the very tips of his fingers.

"I'm not ashamed of the…connection, Spike, if that's what you mean. But it's a delicate situation and will need delicate handling."

Spike shut his eyes. He turned his face aside and kissed Giles's open palm. 

"Maybe you _should_ be ashamed?" he said. "After all, I'm a monster."

"True." Giles ignored the now-familiar tingling that the touch of Spike's lips initiated. "However, Spike, that's not all you are."

"Isn't it?" Spike opened his eyes again. His lips parted, hanging on Giles's every word.

Looking at those lips, Giles was overcome with astonishment at the tenderness he felt. How, he wondered, had his feelings towards this creature changed so irrevocably in such a short time? What if Spike was right? What if he _was_ fooling himself? 

"Tell me what happened," he said. "Between you and Buffy, I mean?"

Spike blinked. He chewed the inside of his mouth. "She told you her side of the story, has she?"

"Well – no," Giles had to admit. "Or very little. Naturally enough, she didn't want to talk about it. I only know about the…the bathroom incident at all because Xander told me."

"Ah." Spike pondered this information for a moment. Then he said, "Can't tell you then, I'm afraid. Wouldn't be right, givin' you my side of the story when you don't have hers. Would be like I was trying to justify myself – an' I don't wanna do that. I tried to rape her. That's all you need to know."

Giles looked deep into Spike's eyes, again seeing no hint of deception. He smiled. Then he leaned forward and kissed him on the lips.

"As I said, you're not just a monster."

Spike shuddered all over at his touch, but he said nothing, just opened his mouth for Giles's tongue.

The kiss was long and deep and threatened to get rather out of hand, and at some point during it, Giles's mobile phone rang. Both of them ignored it, too intent on each other, but at last, Giles broke away. On the whole, it was probably better they not get themselves arrested for lewd behaviour in public.

He gave Spike, who was looking altogether too pleased with himself, an embarrassed smile and started the engine. His trousers had become a little tight at the crotch, but he didn't mind that. In fact, in spite of the last two days' bizarre developments, he felt rather jaunty, like someone who'd unexpectedly won first prize at a raffle without even buying a ticket.

As they pulled out of the layby, Spike said, softly, "Don't leave me for too long, will you? I'm no good without you, Giles. I'm not safe. The voices-"

Giles patted his knee. "I'll only be gone a matter of days – long enough to put the Council off the scent, that's all."

"Good. That's good." Spike shuddered. "I don't dream the same when you're around. Not nice still, but bearable. None of that from beneath you, it devours crap." 

"I _beg_ your pardon?" Giles turned to stare at him again, but Spike had looked away. He was reading the display on Giles's mobile.

"Huh!" He tilted his head. "That call you missed – some bloke called Robson. You know him?"

Giles was already slowing down to take the minor road up to the Westbury house. He had to think for a minute, but then he remembered. Robson – a fellow Watcher, and like himself, not one of Travers' favourites.

"A work colleague," he said. "Nothing to worry about, Spike. Nothing that has the potential to prevent me getting back to you as soon as possible, I'm sure." 

"Good," Spike said, again, but in spite of that, he wrapped his arms about himself, staring off into the darkness. 

After a moment, Giles realised he was humming to himself – rather an odd tune for Spike to be humming – old-fashioned, softly melodic.

_Early one mo-orning-_


End file.
